Their Majesties, The Gallaghers
by pieisfantasticforme
Summary: Meet The Gallaghers, a normal dysfunctional quirky family. Oh yes, it's probably worth mentioning that they answer to Your Highnesses.


1

 **If you could ask anyone who lived during the time that would become known as the Fionian Era, their opinion of the ruling class would be remarkedly positive. This will come as a shock to any self-proclaimed historian of the Empire of Chicago, who likes to paint all of the elites with the same corrupt, exorbitant brush. Of course, There were bad apples in the bushel but no more than any country in that time period. I often ponder whether these critics would have the same opinion if they could step into one of the famed Gallagher's shoes.**

…

For someone who was named the most eligible bachelorette in the world, Fiona had a shit ton of problems. Most could be traced back to her addled neglectful parents but the reason Fiona currently was hiding in a closet that seemed to exclusively hold yellowing silverware could be traced farther up the family tree to her "loving" grandmother, Empress Margarethe II. _Fiona! We're family. Call me Peggy._ To be fair, Fiona had always idolized her nana. The woman single-handedly turned a poverty-stricken backwater of a country into a global power. She had done all this while raising three successful children (and Frank). You see, right around the Chicagoan equivalent of New Year's, Empress Peggy had a fantastic idea. The government had previously relinquished most legislative power to the monarchy anyway so Her Supreme Majesty decided to do away with a series of laws related to succession. First of all, all the limitations on female inheritance were done away with. The reason she was cowering in a cupboard, however, was directly linked to Peggy's second proclamation; That the current reigning monarch has the right to choose their successor as long as they bear a direct relation to the sovereign. Who did Peggy choose you ask? Not her eldest son, Jeremiah, Not her successful military general of a son, Clayton, Thankfully not her utter screw up of a son, Frank but her 23-year-old granddaughter, who, you guessed it, is Fiona.

And this frustrating thought is what jars Fiona back to earth as she shifts and hits a box of chrome plated forks with her left shoulder. She is not hiding from her beloved uncles, shortly after the announcement a postcard from Jeremy had arrived with a sincere, loving congratulations. And, Clayton always preferred the military to politics and from years of extravagant birthday gifts would never hurt his petit taureau. Fiona smiled fondly into the dank closet, Clayton has always had a passion for dead languages. No, Fiona shook her head and straightened, today's problem like so many others began with her deadbeat father. She assessed her position and snorted. As her hand darted out and grasped the smooth handle of the door, she smiled, What was she doing being afraid of Frank? From now on, she decided resolute and confident, Frank should be afraid of her.

…

Exactly four floors down from where his older sister was readying herself to face her father, Phillip Gallagher was building a death-ray. Well, it was supposed to be a death-ray. As of then, it looked like a particularly elaborate laser pointer. Lip, _if you call me Phillip one more time_ , was the smartest of his siblings but that intelligence translated only to the things he was interested in. He had no interest in politics despite his title of Grand Duke, a fact which never ceased to annoy his peers. He chuckled as he adjusted a wire; the only thing his title was good for was shiny new toys (and girls). He glanced upward at the clock and stood up. He's done enough for today and exits the lab satisfied. His calm gait is interrupted by a maniacal laugh.

Lip sighs, siblings, and gathered his breath to yell, "Carl!". He glances to the left and is immediately confronted with his 10-year-old brother sprinting down the lushly carpeted hallway holding a priceless antique sword. As Carl, _I will gut you if you call me Carlton_ , continues his mad dash, Lip plucks the sword out of his hand and catches him by the back of his rumpled shirt.

"Carl, How many times have we told you these weapons aren't to be used, Where's your minder? Carl, if you made another one quit, so help me god-." Lip spits out.

Carl smirks, "Annika didn't quit- I locked her in a closet. She's no fun, always nagging." Carl singsongs. " _Carl hurting people is wrong, Carl_ don't _play with rifles. Carl don't play with fire_. Ugh, like she knows how to have fun, she's so old."

Lip ran his hand through his brown hair, mind briefly going to the fact Anikka was only a year older than him. "You." He said, pointing at his brother. "Are going to release Annika from the closet and apologize."

"But-" Carl whined.

"No buts, do it or anything that wouldn't make it through airport security in your room is going to the trash." Carl stormed off muttering something like, _we have a private jet though_. Peckish after dealing with his sociopathic brother, the Grand Duke of Englewood, headed to one of the four kitchens to find a ham sandwich.

…

Ian Gallagher, as it happens, was also in the same kitchen his older brother was making his way toward. Ian, despite his most ardent wishes, was not eating his lunch but arguing. With who, you query? With his security detail. You see, Ian Gallagher could be construed as a rather unremarkable royal. A middle brother who stood no chance of inheriting due to his father being low man on the totem pole and the abolishment of the misogynistic Salic laws, Ian was known for his early years for his red hair, a trait uncommon in the land of Chicago. Until of course being chosen by his grandmother as the military successor to his uncle, Clayton. Suddenly half the country either wanted Ian dead or wanted to tout him as a hero despite him never being in a war. Ian chose to pay the sudden influx of death threats no mind despite the concerns of his family. Inevitably, this led to conflict with his heightened security detail. The argument that was taking place right now was over Ian's refusal to have a taster taste his soup before eating it.

"Enough of this, It's ridiculous. If someone wanted to kill me badly they would have done it already." Ian sighed and leaned back against the quartz countertop. "Please let me eat my soup in peace," he muttered. "I went on an eight-mile run this morning."

Terry Milkovich, the muscled and tattooed head of his security detail was not cowed by his protestations. "I do not need your approval just your the approval of your sister and we both know how she feels" Terry furrowed his brow as if pondering whether to speak again, "Your Grace." He added as an afterthought.

"Oh God, do not get Fiona involved." Ian slumped from his standing position onto one of the leather barstools. Deciding from Ian's dejected expression, Terry had got his point across, Terry exited the room with a low growl to a subordinate to hire a taster. His soup, although soup may not do the dish that had been painstakingly prepared by two of the six chefs they had on staff justice, suddenly seemed less appetizing. Preparing to sulk for the rest of day, apart from his obligatory run around the grounds of their summer palace, of course, Ian grabbed a bag of dried fruit and was about to set out for the in-house theater when he heard the patter of little feet.

"Liam!", Ian's mood considerably brightened, "How'd you escape Svetlana, little guy?" Ian swept Liam up into his arms and nudged the kitchen's oak door open. Liam mumbled something in incoherent baby speak as Ian almost ran smack into a frazzled looking Svetlana.

"Baby, give baby, demon-child Carlton locked me in closet," Svetlana, a young nanny hired for Liam held out her arms in which Ian placed the giggling child.

Ian shrugged and moved on to the theater passing through a ballroom. He glanced out of one of the ornate windows that faced the part of the grounds closest to the road. The sky was a beautiful shade of blue and Ian paused to admire it. A shout startled him from his reverie and Ian turned slowly. The summer day seeming to slow everything down including his reflexes. He heard a whistle, it occurred to him it could be a bird. As he pondered why birds were out in the stifling heat, the glass separating him from the outside world shattered and the whistling bullet hit him.


End file.
